Britt and I spent four days in New York for work (the National Lesbian & Gay Journalists Association convention) and play (carousing around Manhattan, hiking across the Brooklyn Bridge, and checking out the Pride '04 festivities). Check out the photo gallery.

Friday, June 18

I am considering seriously changing my name to Hershel. My decision might seem rash and premature, but if everyone else is going to adopt an old Jewish person's name, then I want to stake my claim early before all the good ones are gone. Mordechai also has a nice ring to it.

Thursday, June 17

Could my brand-spankin'-new iBook arrive at my doorstep tomorrow morning? Perhaps! According to the FedEx Web site, the package arrived in Orlando a little after 7 p.m. tonight; it is presumably on its way to Tampa right now.

My fingers are crossed.

The new iBook is already a world traveler, having gone from a factory in Tao Yuan, Taiwan; to the Taiwanese capital of Taipei; to Anchorage; then to Indiapolis; on to Memphis; and just recently to Orlando.

The new iBook is a gift to myself for my 32nd birthday, which approaches much too rapidly for comfort.

Friday, June 11

What do you get when you put together Dave and two of his favorite coworkers (one of whom has since moved on to a high-profile career in the world of public relations), a piece of delicious Publix cake, a velvet Elvis painting, and a tiara?

This:

That's Cherie on the left, Sarah on the right, and the ink-stained wretch who writes this blog in the middle. Sarah found this picture stashed away at the very bottom of her digital camera's memory card.

Wednesday, June 9

I haven't written anything about the Lightning victory because I'm still in shock (no pun intended). Needless to say, this is a great time for we humble citizens and denizens of the Tampa Bay area. And not too great a time for those folks in Calgary.

Oh, and just a brief word to Jerome Iginla: when blood is spouting from a player's face, he's probably not faking the injury. Okay, Jer? You should just shut up the next time one of your bloodthirsty brutish teammates gets sent to the penalty box. Your little conniptions won't win your team any points, but they might just earn you the title of Drama Queen.

Watson, the furry feline brother that I named "America's Favorite Housecat" several years ago, has started his own blog. Insert your own joke here re: the cat using the mouse instead of trying to eat it.

It wasn't long ago that I was on top of the blog world. Today, I'm being outblogged by my parents' cat. I'm the Kevin Costner of the blogosphere.

Saturday, June 5

Britt and I just saw "The Day After Tomorrow," and I would like to say a little something about the film's scientific and political premises, but I will not because The Daily Dave 2.0 doesn't state opinions for fear of upsetting my corporate masters.

Here's what I can tell you about "The Day After Tomorrow": It's a pretty darn good sci-fi/disaster movie. Compared to "Independence Day," which was directed by the same person, "The Day After Tomorrow" seems a more focused and urgent film: it relies less on stock characters and stereotypes (such as "ID"'s stripper with a heart of gold, menschy Jewish dad, and snivelling political henchmen), and the outcomes were less formulaic and predictable. Overall, it was worth the $15 or so we paid for tickets.

Of course, now "The Day After Tomorrow" will always be inextricably linked in my mind with Ronald Reagan's death. The ex-president must have passed away while Britt and I were in the theater; we didn't hear the news until we got home. Once again, here on The Daily Dave 2.0, there will be no editorializing about Reagan or his policies, good or bad.

My family lived overseas when Reagan was president. To me, a kid in Europe, Reagan seemed more like an icon than a president: he was the leader of the place I called home but that wasn't really home. Home is where your parents and brothers lived, and where you went to school and synagogue, and where you played with the dogs in the back yard. We expats were like athletes who decide to sit out the season, and Reagan was like the coach that we still had to pay attention to.

Daal takes in the view from the San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park

Some photos that I didn't take:
-- A picture of the crazy guy on the Muni tram who was wearing a dress and shouting names of desserts at people
-- A picture of the crazy guy in Mill Valley who disassembled the trash can outside of Peet's Coffee looking for something he apparently could not find
-- A picture of another crazy guy on the Muni tram who made the shape of a handgun with his fingers, and pantomimed shooting other passengers as they left the tram

I have enough pictures of myself. I don't need to weigh down my photo album with pictures of other crazy people.

Wednesday, June 2

Britt and I spent our Memorial Day weekend in San Francisco, and I fell in love with my favorite city all over again. I don't just love San Francisco: I adore it, in the same obsessive way that a teenage girl idolizes a pop star, except that my crush only gets stronger as I grow older. Leaving San Francisco is always so painful; I fantasize about going there one day and never coming back. I am envious of Craig Souza, my childhood pal from London who now calls San Francisco home.

About Me

David Simanoff was 7 pounds, 14 ounces, and 20 inches long at birth. He is now much larger, and sometimes answers to the name Skippy. Many people have said that Mr. Simanoff is the finest haiku writer of his generation, but those people are mostly liars and cannot be trusted.